This is how it has been and the way it will be from now on. Simple fact.

I can't imagine living with the vain hope of improvement; returning to the way it was. But that's how it's been for her these 800 days. Hoping against impossible odds.

To me it seems a freak show of desperation. But I have not had to face that harsh reality. I don't know if I would fare any better. Maybe I would also fill the air with delusion: Do everything possible to distract my attention from the simple fact that there is no going back. It's all gone.

No second chances. No opportunity to watch it all disappear.

It's already gone.

yep. back to L.A. for 3 weeks.

aaaaaaaaaaaagh !!!!!!!!!!!!

fuck L.A.

for me there's no place left that seems anywhere close to home. no place to unwind.

nowhere feels safe.

for the first time, it's scary and foreign in a way that it never felt like before.

for reals.

no place for rest. no place for comfort.

oh god it's not just L.A., it's this world. it's me. nowhere safe.

fuck.

See how your neighborhood ranks in the CompStat system:
http://www.nyc.gov/html/nypd/html/crime_prevention/crime_statistics.shtml

In all of New York City this year there will likely be about 10-people-per-week murdered.

Hooray! crime is "down" compared to it's historic highs. 10 murders a week is TOTALLY acceptable.

Bravo, CompStat.

So instead of the average 10 murders expected for the rest of the year... we have 2 more to hit our quota.

If the cops gun down a couple MORE retarded kids on the street does that count? I don't think they counted the first one in their statistics. I'm pretty sure they counted that Sonny-Corleone-style takedown as a "good" shooting.

That gives the amateurs and thugs 2 "gimmees" to round out their activities.

Some people obsess on Ball games and team sports to get their Statistic Jones satisfied.

How fuckin boring.

Come on, Bed-Stuy.... 40% drop in rape this year?!?!!?!! What are you.... Gay?

Goooooooooooooo Bed-Stuy!!!!!!!!!!!!!

Wooooooooo!!!!!

The Life Cycle of a Chinese Girl:
year 1 - 7: childhood
year 8 - 14: factory work
year 15 - 26: prostitution (plus factory work)
year 27 - ?: factory work

is this the ultimate goal in our society?

really?

what the fuck, man.

days pass and i barely notice.

weeks and months to the wind.

yesterday though. yesterday i remember.

the big black lady at the corner Grease Peddler... lazily standing at the order window even though i was trying to get my slice of cheeses pizza through the small opening. Blocking most of the 2-foot square hole with her girthy form as she waited for her chicken wings.

the laundromat. it's convenient prepaid cards make fishing for quarters a thing of the past. the suds, the smell, the ritual.

Fee Fee's presence.

Miss Mollie got over her fear and discovered the magic of spreadsheets.

the beef stew at Collado restaurant and that familiar part of East Broadway.

the walk down Broadway and around East New York and Brownsville. Pimpy mens clothing stores. African markets in Crown Heights. Delicious nuggets of ghetto entertainment everywhere. People yelling and carrying on.

The relative quietness of our corner of Bed-Stuy.

This apartment, a living sacrifice to Flux and Form.

a kiss or two. a touch. a thought. a feeling.

things went on. stuff was said and done.

Really, not much happened. But it seemed like 5 days passed - all slow and detailed.

It's already disappearing - creeping into the void of All Yesterdays.

the dread never fully abates. since late last year, it has been the dread of not knowing.

not knowing if i had what it takes to sustain a higher level of lifestyle complexity - higher expenses, unknown emotional road map and all.

but things just keep rolling along.

different, stranger? yes.

harder? no. not really.

along with the heat and humidity of a Brooklyn spring/summer comes a dull enveloping blankness.

the muscles warm up and loosen. everyone slows down. i speed up.

big cat gliding through his hunting grounds. i am almost that.

luckily i have a girlfriend whos near-constant disdain keeps me human.

hooray for hapless boobs like me.

Mollie is in the shower. We're going to Bushwick's open studio event today. Dozens of artists and venues are opening their studios. Showing their work, having performances and such.

It should be uber-hipsterific. Much drinking of Pabst Blue Ribbon and other low quality headache-inducing brew and other irony-centric shenanigans.

Give me a Newcastle any day. I don't care if it's up to a buck-seventy-five a bottle. It doesn't punish like swill punishes.

I'm wearing one of Mollie's T-shirts. Her "Technics" record player one. It fits so tight yet is far less gay-ey than her gray shirt with the neck cut out.

You might say I look very "Greg Barnett-ish"

mm hm.

yeah.

In August, Mollie and I are having a "First Annual Bed-Stuy Artist-Open-Studio-Day-on-Monroe-Street-between-Stuyvesant-and-Lewis catty-corner-from-the-drug-house-that-the plain-clothes-NYPD-appear-to-be-targeting-regularly"

Yes. It will be something like the Mar Vista "moon" parties.

Be there bitches.

Unlike the previous day, I didn't wake up at 3am and continue to modify and optimize web pages - no work-from-home-and-continue-to-work-on-site shenanigans.

When I got home last night I trimmed the plant up front. A continuation of the massive trimming the day before. I also sawed a 2x4 into pieces, building a low ramp for pushing my new (new for me, but 3.4 decades old itself) motorcycle up near the front stoop and off the street.

Having a night's sleep - deep sleep - blissfully emotionally released from work. Knowing that it all has to be done eventually. Knowing there are other, more enjoyable, things to do in conjunction with that universe.

Knowing.

Knowing in my cells.

Other stuff. A balance of things. Jumping from one to the other. As needed. for their maintenance and most especially: for my peace of mind.

Every day. Every moment.

I just spent another few minutes trimming the bush some more. I'll try to find seeds today. Wild flowers might be good.

Something to fill the east end of the small dirt square being cleared.

I have plans to launch a new web site... or maybe just fold the idea here into YUMMYMEAT.

Something wonderfully big and slick, bringing to bear all the deep WEB 2.0 knowledge I've taught myself over the past 6 months... combined with other, older, obsessions.

It should be nice.

Oh yeah... and I blogged.

here. now.

God fuckin bless Amerrikka.

there's work to finish.

mentally beat. emotionally drained.

things to do. promises to keep.

other stuff pending. might have to come back in the summer if things don't go well.

i'd rather be in Brooklyn living my simple life. in perfect imperfection

oh well. once more unto the breach.

no one else is gonna step up.

some things are best entered into with extreme anger.

stiffen the sinews, summon up the blood.

the gloves drop

Home Rule

...but I wouldn't let one date my sister

Like the Iraq situation, except with beef not oil... follow the money

When lacking proper "mud" skinned targets, whitey feeds on his own. Yes, secession is an old tradition.

seriously, though, can you ask greg to stop texting me mean things (that aren't true) in the middle of the night? i got a torrent of texts calling me fat and a loser and saying i can't perform without him (which is obviously untrue because i have a monthly paid gig) among other just off the wall things... i just really don't want my pot given to him or any energy mixed, i had his number deleted from my phone and all i responded was that his number was gone, do the same with mine, and i got all these "you are a fat loser" comments back. which just show how insecure he is and probably pissed that he can't pay his own rent, but really can you or mollie sit down with him and tell him this is really old and i really and honestly want nothing to do with his negative vibe? he started that last text war out of nowhere, also.
he sends one message and then says : "and i'm not reading your response loser" then he sends more saying the same thing...